


Full Circle

by crystallines



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Gen, but its mostly focused on silena and ethans friendship :-), there are...so many supporting characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:58:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallines/pseuds/crystallines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's always happening in the myths: In wartime, even the closest friends are doomed to separation. And still, despite the odds stacked against them, Silena and Ethan will try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Summer 2003**

In hindsight, Silena should have seen through him sooner. 

Luke had always been kind to the other campers. He soothed the unclaimed when they were frightened or confused or angry. He was always the first to applaud when the campfire songs rose into their steep crescendos. 

He was  _too_ kind, really. It was difficult to harbor any sort of suspicion towards him, anyway, since he’d just returned from his failed quest. The wound—the jagged scar on his left cheek—was still fresh, vibrant and angry red and _hideous_. If anything, all that Silena had felt towards him was pity. That was why she had never even considered suspecting him.

Her doubts, instead, had always been directed towards… _someone_ _else_.

The _newcomer_.

He was one of the unclaimed. He was always brooding, but Silena could understand why he might be unhappy with the state of _certain things_. From the start, she had always been wary of him for a different reason.

It was because he made no attempt to disguise the prominent fact of his bitterness. Of his anger, perhaps bordering on _hatred_ , towards the gods.

And hatred was a dangerous thing.

“Ethan is, like,  _eleven_ ,” Luke had pointed out to her, once, when she had approached him during the campfire. “Silena. Honestly. He’s just a kid.”

She was startled to realize that it was the first time she had ever heard the boy’s name. She supposed it made sense, that Luke had been the one to inform her of it. As head counselor of the Hermes cabin, he was _supposed_ to know everyone’s names, especially those of the unclaimed.

They didn’t have anyone else to look up to, after all.

“What difference does it make?” Silena had asked by means of a response.

“He doesn’t know any better, does he? He’ll come around. I know he will. In the meantime, I think you should warm up to him a little bit. He’s nice enough—I mean, if you’re nice to _him_.”

The fire bristled before them, crackling flames leaping into the night in a futile attempt to caress the stars. Silena pursed her lips. “Well, that’s easy enough for _you_ to say, isn’t it? You’re the only person he ever talks to.” Her tone was light, teasing, but her shoulders had already become home to a heavy weight of dread.

What happened, she wondered, if you  _weren’t_ nice to him?

Luke was smiling to himself. “I’m his head counselor, aren’t I? He _has_ to talk to me. It’s not like he has a choice.”

Silena expelled a breath. “Just keep an eye on him for me, would you?”

“Of course,” said Luke, without even the slightest moment of hesitation, and Silena made the mistake of thinking nothing of it. She really did believe that Luke would look after the newcomer. She thought Luke would make sure that he stayed _out_ of harm’s way, instead of beckoning him closer to it. 

Foolish, foolish,  _foolish._  

* * *

For all his faults, Luke was right in one aspect, and only one: Ethan really wasn’t all that horrible. 

He was still a little unnerving in the subtlest of ways, what with his quiet, calculating eyes and a mouth that seemed to be frozen in an eternal sneer. Just…not as much as Silena had grown to expect. 

But she was willing to look past the fact of his oddness, for the sake of peace throughout the cabins of camp. Companionship.  _Unity._  The gods themselves had always seemed to have a little trouble with the whole concept; it was, she figured, _their_ responsibility to learn to get along with each other.

She took to pairing up with Ethan during sparring lessons. At first she was faced with the task of putting up with several odd glances tossed in her direction—even from her best friend, Clarisse La Rue—but she found that she simply didn’t care.

He was her friend, after all. Or—he  _would_ be, as soon as he stopped flat-out ignoring her attempts at small talk. 

This only happened after a month of sparring. A _month_. 

He was lying on his back, squinting up at her. The pointed edge of Silena’s wooden practice sword was resting at his throat for the umpteenth time.

 “Am I _ever_ going to win against you?” His laugh, when it came, was half sardonic, half wondering. 

Silena took a step back from him and placed her practice sword at her feet. She offered a hand to help him back up. She didn’t know how successful she was at concealing her surprise when he actually took it. 

“You’re not a bad swordsman yourself,” she offered.

He cracked a smile, then, just barely. In that instant, his earth brown eyes were wide, doe-like,  _young_. He stooped to pick up her practice sword, lying forlorn and forgotten in the pale grass, and held it up to her, hilt first. 

“How about a rematch? Then you can decide for yourself.”

* * *

One of the first things that Silena found out about Ethan was that his morals were a little strange, or at least not what someone would typically expect.

They were sitting beneath the shade of Thalia Grace’s pine tree. Their skin was still slicked with sweat from another practice session; Ethan offers her a bottle of water that she accepts gratefully.

As the morning sun rose higher in the sky, Silena listened to him recount a tale he’d once heard. In the story, there was a fisherman who had saved a young boy’s life. The boy, grateful beyond measure, told the fisherman that he would do anything, _anything_  in return, for he owed his life to the fisherman. He hadn’t been expecting to be asked to murder his closest friend, though. 

“He didn’t _actually_  kill his friend,” said Ethan. “He _almost_ did. But he didn’t.”

Silena didn’t like the story. It made her sick, _twisted_  on the inside. Despite this, she still found herself asking, “And then?”

“Well.” Ethan picked at the blades of grass beside him almost idly. “It didn’t matter in the end, anyway. The fisherman came one night and killed both the boy and his friend, because the boy had lied to him, and the friend had—” He stopped; a frown tugged on his mouth. “Huh. I don’t remember what the friend did to anger the fisherman, exactly.”

Silena _really_ didn’t like this tale. “What kind of lesson does _that_ story teach?”

Ethan shrugged. “Pay debts where they’re due?”

“Are you saying that  _you_ would’ve killed your own friend, if your savior asked you to?”

“Pay debts where they’re due,” Ethan repeated.

Silena stared at him. He didn’t gesture with his hands when he spoke, the way other people did. It was hard to read his body language. It was hard to tell if he was joking or not. 

When she was seventeen, she met Charles Beckendorf, charming and intelligent and— _really_ , she questioned, was he a figment of her dreams, brought to life by the generous hand of her own mother Aphrodite? He called her _starlight_ , and he was her world.

Sometimes she found her pulse thumping frantically; sometimes she found it faltering. They first kissed beneath the fireworks on Midsummer’s Eve to the raucous applause and whistling of the others around them, and she was capable of recalling the moment with only the sluggish viscosity of a dream. But somehow, _somehow_ , she knew it was real.

Even when she finally caught her first sight of the oncoming storm, she knew for a fact that she would not lose him. She _could_ not. The prospect of it was so terrifying that she was afraid to put words to it, because if the eulogy did not have lyrics, then it could not be sung.

It took weeks upon weeks of storytelling and sparring, but, eventually, Silena began to see the side of Ethan she had only caught glimpses to before—the  _goodness_. He still scraped portions of his plate as an offering to Hermes, despite his apparent loathing of the gods. “Thanks,” he murmured, “for taking me in when no one else would,” and Silena, standing beside him at the time, hadn’t been able to resist smiling to herself. 

It was a sort of— _tradition_ , almost—among the Aphrodite cabin to gift trinkets to new friends. It was a tradition that Silena had begun herself, actually. Ethan didn’t seem to need anything other than someone to talk to, so that was exactly what Silena was to him. At first, it was pity that drove her. As time went on, however, it morphed into genuine liking for the boy. 

He only rolled his eyes when Silena knocked on the door of the Hermes cabin to give him a friendship bracelet she’d knit herself. Still, she saw the pink yarn encircling his wrist the next day. 

This moment might have marked the end, or perhaps the beginning, of their friendship.

Because the very next day, without any warning of any sort, Ethan disappeared from camp.

And two years later, Percy Jackson exposed Luke for the traitor he was, and then Luke disappeared, too. In his wake, he left only a scrawled note beneath Silena’s pillow: _You have two weeks to find us. Otherwise, Beckendorf dies._

This, Silena thought, could not end well.

* * *

**Fall 2008**

It is the silence, more than anything, which strikes fear into his heart.

It’s a living, breathing thing, this silence. It’s denser than anything, and it presses into him from all sides. It sends his hands gripping the sword at his hip; his knuckles are chalk-white on the hilt.

The chaos of the streets above, the rattling of fangs and the scraping of claws—it was _nothing_ compared to this.

But his mother has finally— _finally_ —shown herself, and he knows who he is, now. A son of Nemesis with his path already laid out before him, crystal clear and unmistakable.

He’s been on the run ever since he left that stupid camp, running from monsters by day and sleeping under the rain by night, mostly surviving on foraged scraps and free samples at Costco. It’s ridiculously easy to slip into the crowd and pretend to be some Asian adult’s son. 

And then, mere hours ago, a sleek-haired woman had just— _materialized_ before him, spewing all sorts of garbage about his _worth_ , and the _Titans_ , and _victory_ and _balance_. At least, Ethan  _thought_ it was garbage, at first. He didn’t know that the woman was _his_   _mother_ , or that she would lead him to the Marriott in Manhattan, or that she’d show him a secret entrance to— _somewhere_. 

Before she left him, she paused and said, “Are you willing to make a difference in this world? Make things better for children of the minor gods such as yourself?”

“Of course,” he said without thinking, because, before then, he hadn’t even  _known_ that Nemesis was a goddess that existed. 

“You know everything comes with a price, don’t you?”

He held her gaze and didn’t flinch, even though he sort of wanted to. “I do.”

“You willing to pay for it?”

“I am.”

“That’s my boy,” she said, practically beaming, and Ethan had a hard time believing that the odd tone of her voice was pride. 

A snap of her fingers, the sound sharp and piercing in the spacious lobby of the hotel, and all Ethan felt was  _pain_ , white-hot and unbearable, all stemming from his left eye.

She offered no consolation. She merely watched as Ethan stood rigid, fist pressed against his mouth, and bit his lip to keep from screaming in agony. He wouldn’t let himself cry. He had to stay  _strong_ ; it was how he’d survived for this long, after all.

His mother sent him on his way with an eye patch and instructed him to join the ranks of the Titan Army, whatever _that_ was. She told him, “Oh. I should warn you—you will soon be reunited with an old friend”

So this is Ethan’s path: a winding underground maze with corridors made of quiet.

He shouldn’t do it, not when time is a limited resource, but he hesitates for a second that stretches into two, then three. A fourth. A fifth.

The spot where his left eye used to be still burns like fire, but he hears Nemesis’ words resounding somewhere within the caverns of his mind. _You will soon be reunited with an old friend._

Silena Beauregard is the only name he considers. He hasn’t seen her in four years—or was it _five_? He doesn’t know; he’s lost count a long, long time ago—but he hasn’t forgotten her. How could he ever forget the face of the one person who saw him as the person, the _human_ he is? 

Except—he might be remembering the wrong face. She’s gotten older, of course, the same way he has, and he wonders what she looks like now, wonders if the pure _goodness_ within her has survived the horrors of the ever-brewing war.

He thinks it has. He’s always had a lot of faith in her.

_You will soon be reunited with an old friend._

Ethan hesitates for a sixth second, and then he progresses forward into the darkness of the maze.

* * *

It isn’t Silena that he meets.

It’s Luke.

Luke _Castellan_.

The same person who told him tales of injustice and tended to his hatred of the gods, _fueled_ it, the same one who became the reason why Ethan chose to act on his anger rather than nurse it in secret.

_You will soon be reunited with an old friend._

Part of Ethan is relieved, in a twisted sort of way, to see a familiar face. He’s been alone for so long, after all. But the other half is _recoiling_ , and Ethan doesn’t know which side of himself he can trust.

There are great hulking _fish-beasts_ flanking Luke on either side. A boy that Ethan recognizes from camp is holding up a torch; warm light spills into the darkened hall. Green eyes. A young freckled face marred with scars and peculiar shapes scrawled in Sharpie.

He was unclaimed, too, Ethan remembers.

By the light of the torch, the small procession is eerie; they flicker in and out of Ethan’s sight like ghosts. When one of the monsters advances forward, Ethan scrambles back hastily. His blood rushes like a waterfall in his ears; his palms are clammy with sweat.

“A possible recruit, sir, perhaps?” the monster hisses at Luke, and Ethan doesn’t miss the title. _Sir_.

He’s overcome with a sudden irrational fear. He _shouldn’t_ be—there’s nothing to be afraid of, not the beasts, not the prospect of the war his mother has always craved, and certainly not the flare of recognition that lights Luke’s eyes in the dark.

“Perhaps,” he says, speaking as if Ethan isn’t standing _right there_. “He’ll have to go through the trials first, of course.”

Somewhere within the confines of his throat, Ethan rediscovers his own voice. “I know who you are.” He has to pause to suck in a breath. “I know what you’ve become.”

Luke casts him a disinterested glance. “Do you?” He looks to the boy beside him. “What _have_ I become, Torrington? Do _you_ know?” 

And Ethan remembers the boy’s name, now; it’s Alabaster Torrington and he’s always been spiteful, too, perhaps even as spiteful as Ethan. He opens his mouth to respond but Ethan doesn’t give him a chance.

“A liar,” he says. “A cheater, a stealer. A _murderer_.”

“And what would your point be? Elaborate. _Please_.” 

There’s mocking in his tone, cruel and ugly, coiled like a snake poised to attack. Ethan can see that it’s all a ploy, because beneath that impassive mask, there’s just the slightest hint of calculation. It’s enough to make Ethan choose his next words carefully.

“My point,” he says, “is that I’ve become the very same things.” He doesn’t know how he finds it in himself, but he smiles at Luke, and for a second, just a second, Luke _falters_. “Wouldn’t you like to have someone like me on your team?”

And his collected coolness is an act, too, because he’s scared half to death, and the scuffling of the fish-beasts isn’t exactly helping. But Luke doesn’t need to know that.

Luke barks out a brittle laugh, and Ethan suppresses the urge to wince. 

He stands rooted to the spot when Luke advances toward him. He lets Luke force his chin up so they’re staring each other in the eyes, knowing it will be futile to try to escape from _him_ , personification of storms. 

But then again, retreat must have been included _somewhere_ in Luke’s brutal programming, because the son of Hermes drops his hand like he’s been burned and takes a step back.

“What happened,” he breathes, “to your eye?”

The tale is far too drawn out and lengthy, and so Ethan compresses it into a single word that sounds like, “Nemesis.”

Understanding dawns on Luke; Ethan can see it washing over him like the tide, and then he says, “ _Nemesis_? Goddess of retribution?”

“Revenge,” says Ethan, even though retribution and revenge sort of _are_ the same things, but Luke already thinks far too highly of himself, anyway.

Luke only looks at him for a long moment. The fish-beasts snarl; Alabaster Torrington’s torch sputters.

And then he says, “Oh, _perfect_.”

* * *

 

The way Luke mentioned a  _trial_ so easily yesterday in the twisting corridors of the Labyrinth, Ethan thought it would be like a college entrance exam. It turns out that Luke’s idea of a trial is a fight to the death against some boy named Percy Jackson.

Ethan doesn’t know much about him, but he isn’t surprised when he loses. Something he _does_ know—courtesy of the jeering crowd, _of course_ —is that Jackson is a son of one of the Big Three, so it’s a sure win for him. Perhaps it’s even an _easy_ one, since Ethan already gave up before he even stepped into Anateus’ arena.

He _is_ surprised, though, when Jackson escapes and _takes him along_. He offers Ethan a place at camp, as if Ethan didn’t spend most of his time there miserable, unrecognized, and a little confused.

The fish-beasts— _telekhines_ , they’re called—growl when he steps back into the arena, but Luke waves a dismissive hand, so they back off. Ethan glances up at him; Luke only inclines his head, and Ethan is pretty sure that means something like, _You’re in._

* * *

**Summer 2009**

The first thing that Silena sees is— _darkness_. That’s the second thing she sees, and the third, too, because it is swallowing the entirety of the unfamiliar room, spilling past the edges of her vision.

She isn’t as frightened as the first time. This has been happening for _years_ , this waking up alone in the midst of strange rooms that rock to and fro like the floorboards of a ship. Come to think of it, she probably _is_ on a ship. Hasn’t Percy mentioned it, once, in one of his countless reports? The _Princess Andromeda_ —that’s what the Titan Army vessel is called.

And, oh, how she _loathes_ the Titan Army.

Despite everything that says she shouldn’t be, she’s _still_ frightened, just a little. The fear has settled over her like a blanket for such a long time that it almost feels like a second skin now.

There’s a faint _click_ from somewhere in the room, and light floods her vision. She’s attacked with a sudden onslaught of details, like the massive boiler in the center of the moderate expanse, and a boy holding a sword to her throat. Probably Luke, she thinks, because Luke is _always_ holding swords to peoples’ throats. Maybe it’s an attempt to spook her, but if so, it never works anyway. She knows he’d never kill her. Wound her, perhaps, but never kill, because if she was dead, who would be his precious spy? He _needs_ her, after all.

He does not, however, need Charlie. Thoughts of what Luke could do to him make her sick to the stomach.

But the sword isn’t cruel, deadly Backbiter. It’s a different one, forged with celestial bronze, and  _only_ celestial bronze; it isn’t some blasphemous hybrid blade. It clatters to the ground at the same time its wielder lets out a surprised gasp.

“Silena?”

And the voice is distinctly _not Luke’s_.

She looks up, and at first she doesn’t recognize him. He’s older now, and his voice has a deeper pitch to it that she doesn’t remember back at camp. And his _eyes_ —the left one is _missing_ , its absence concealed by a frayed black patch.

She squints at him, not daring to believe. “Ethan?”

“ _Silena_. I—I thought—”

She rises from her crouched position on the floor and tilts her head down to look at him. How old is he, now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Is _this_ what he’s become, then? A deserter, a traitor, a _liar_ —just like Luke?

She searches his face, hoping against hope to find some small portion of remorse, but it is futile and she should have known better. The Titans _have_ no remorse, none at all. And neither do their followers.

Without thinking, she asks, “Who was your godly parent? Did you ever find out?”

“Nemesis,” he answers, and she has to look away.

 _Nemesis_ , goddess of revenge. It all makes so much _sense_. The pieces of the puzzle are already in place now and she had not done her part in placing them together. Guilt wracks through her, followed by shame, followed by anger at herself for _being_ guilty and ashamed.

_Pay debts where they’re due._

Some of her anger is directed at Ethan, and she shouts, with the force of an explosion, “What the _hell_ have you done?”

“I followed my path,” Ethan answers calmly, and his expression is impassive, with no hint of the goodness that Silena once clung to.

“ _What_ path?” she demands, because his response is so stupid, so stupid, so _stupid_ , can’t he see that he’s become another one of the Titans’ pawns, among thousands and thousands of others? It’s the Titans’ fault that Charlie’s fate, delicate as china, is in _her_ hands now, and a small part of her mind, the part that isn’t consumed in pure quaking rage, knows that isn’t fair of her to take this all out on Ethan alone.

But the rest of her is still seething, and so she finds herself yelling, “You are _so dumb_ , Nakamura! I can’t believe you did this. I can’t—I can’t believe— _how could you_? How could you? Answer that for me, if nothing else— _how could you_?”

Somewhere in her haze of fury, she drew her dagger, and she finds herself holding its pointed edge to Ethan’s chest. He didn’t think to disarm her, and she _hates_ him for it; if he disarmed her, she wouldn’t be able to kill him.

And she _is_ going to kill him. She’s going to plunge this dagger into his left pectoral, where Silena thinks his heart would be, and she’s going to leave his broken body, bruised and battered, on the floor of this godforsaken engine room for some other traitorous demigod soldier to find.

She’s going to kill him, her arm is shaking because _she is going to kill him_ , but then she sees the pink yarn bracelet on his right wrist, the color faded with age. She can feel his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath he takes and he’s alive, _painfully_ so, and she knows that goodness is still somewhere inside him beneath layers and layers of his bitterness and—

And—

And _she can’t kill him_ —

“You wouldn’t,” Ethan breathes, and the truth of it courses through Silena’s veins like poison. 

She drops the knife.

Its resounding clatter makes no mistake of her defeat. She can feel the shuddering, the trembling of her pulse. Her very soul is collapsing in on itself, recoiling at her own weakness. She recognizes the feeling. It’s _shame_ , and she’s doused in it.

Ethan’s cheeks are the color of copy paper. He says, “Just give me the information and be done with it,” and his voice is a little shaky, but his gaze on Silena is steadier than anything.

And Silena chokes back a laugh, because— _of course_. The information. That’s what Ethan is here for. The _information_. He isn’t here to apologize for his betrayal, or for _blackmailing_ Silena, and he certainly isn’t going to stick around and _catch up_ with her.

He’s just here to fulfill his role as Luke’s henchman, as Kronos’ pawn.

The _information_.

Gods, she thinks. She’s never been more prepared to _fight_.

But she delivers. She answers Ethan’s prying questions, all thirty-six of them, tells him about her camp’s plans, her camp’s war strategies, tells him that the Ares cabin isn’t fighting with them. With every traitorous word that pierces the air, coated in _her_ voice, a small part of her breaks free, too.

 _Charlie_ , she tells herself. _This is all for Charlie._

Somehow, this thought makes everything just a little more bearable.

* * *

“This is a waste of our _time_. We’re in the middle of nowhere and Castellan is going to get himself killed,” says Alabaster.

They’re on guard duty together, sweating in their heavy Greek armor. The horizon has been deserted for the past hour, but Ethan doesn’t want to risk anything, _especially_ while Luke is...absent. 

“Or worse,” Alabaster adds absentmindedly.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Ethan asks. “It’s important to keep constant watch on the perimeters. Otherwise we’ll be susceptible to a surprise attack. Besides, he’ll be fine. He’s more than capable.”

Alabaster raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How do  _you_ know?”

“He only went to the River Styx.”

“ _Only_  went to the River Styx?” Alabaster repeats, incredulous. “That—” 

“I don’t know why he did it,” Ethan says, before Alabaster can ask. “He didn’t tell anyone. He just—said he’d be away for a while.”

“He didn’t tell anyone? Not even _you_?” When Ethan doesn’t respond, Alabaster continues, “Must be a pretty big deal, then.”

Ethan shrugs. The truth is, the longer Luke is gone, the more his panic builds. But he _has_ to believe that Luke will be back; otherwise, who will lead them? 

Alabaster sighs when Ethan still shows no signs of replying. He tugs his helmet off, wipes the sweat from his brows with a well-inked hand, and leans back against the railing of the promenade deck. Ethan knows better, but it  _is_ unbearably hot outside—it’s a summer afternoon, after all—so he peels off his armor, too, though his gaze never leaves the distant horizon.

An attack could come from _anywhere_ , at any time. 

Alabaster points to Ethan’s newly exposed wrist. “What’s that?”

Ethan follows the direction of Alabaster’s index finger to his bracelet, the one Silena made for him, the one he’s never quite been able to let go of.

“Oh, this?” Ethan raises his hand. It’s a lanyard, really, made from crisscrossing pink yarn; no two strings are the same exact shade. There used to be a smear of blue on one side—from Silena’s nail polish, Ethan guesses—but it has long since faded to a dull smudge that is almost black. “It’s a friendship bracelet. From camp.” It might seem odd for a Titan Army soldier to smile upon memories of Camp Half-Blood, no matter how sweet, so Ethan suppresses the urge.

_“Camp?”_

“She was a good friend of mine,” Ethan states, defensive. “Silena Beauregard—did you know her?”

Much to Ethan’s annoyance, Alabaster lets out a rude snort. “ _Know_ her? Yeah, I know her. She’s our _spy_ , isn’t she?” He cants his vibrant eyes skyward. “I guess what she’s doing now is better than groveling at the feet of the gods, but she can’t even make up her mind between two handsome boys. Honestly. Where’s her backbone? Does she know what a backbone  _is_?”

Ethan scowls. “I don’t want to hear you talking about Silena like that,” he snaps.

Alabaster raises an eyebrow at his sharp tone, but he doesn’t look all that impressed. Instead, he gives an exaggerated shrug and says, “Fine, whatever. I didn’t think you were the type who went around associating with spineless traitors. I just thought you were better than that. That’s all.”

“Oh, shut up.” Ethan shakes his head. He remembers how he interrogated her just this morning, remembers how angry and helpless she looked, remembers the cold bronze of her dagger against his chest. He wonders if she hates him now. He wonders if she _should_ hate him. “You don’t know shit. You have _no idea_ what it’s like, how _hard_ it must be for her, being forced to trade her camp’s safety for her lover’s life—”

“Aren’t you getting a little _too_ riled up for the sake of a _friend_ , Nakamura?” 

“See, you don’t get it. It isn’t like that at all. She’s like a sister to me. Anyway, who are _we_ to talk trash about traitors?” Ethan challenges. It’s a question he’s asked himself, over and over, but never really gave voice to until now.

Alabaster is still leaning against the railing, his stance emitting a false aura of leisure, but Ethan doesn’t miss the way his eyes flash. “Now _you’re_  the one who doesn’t know shit.”

They stand there, regarding each other warily. The air between them is so charged with tension that it’s a miracle it doesn’t literally crackle.

Before either of them can throw the first punch or draw the first sword, footfalls sound from behind them. Someone from the quarterdeck is making their way up to the promenade deck, where Ethan and Alabaster are _supposed_ to be guarding the starboard side of the ship.

When Luke appears at the top of the stairwell, Alabaster pushes himself off the railing and Ethan unclenches fists he didn’t even realize he made.

But Luke looks… _different_. His cheeks are sunken, and yet he seems younger. His eyes are at once more hollow and brighter than Ethan remembers.

“What are you two still doing up here?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest. “Your turn on watch ended just about twenty minutes ago.” Ethan starts to respond, but Luke cuts him off, drawling, “I heard some of your screaming match. I won’t have my own soldiers fighting amongst themselves. That clear?”

“You okay?” Ethan asks. “You look like you’ve just aged five years.” That isn’t necessarily true, but Ethan doesn’t know how else to describe the sudden, drastic change in Luke’s demeanor.

Luke shrugs with a nonchalance that Ethan doesn’t believe. “The Underworld, you know. You can imagine. Anyway, we should head down. The sun’s about to set and you guys can’t take the night watch after this.”

The voice isn’t Luke’s, but Ethan is only half listening. His instincts are on red alert; something is different. Something is... _off_. He intends to find out just _what_ , exactly, has changed. 

And, he figures, if Silena was forced into striking a deal with Luke, then she has a right to know that the tables have turned.

* * *

Silena doesn’t hear from the Titan Army for the rest of the week. Part of her is relieved. The other is anxious, jittery. Every time she looks at Charlie, she is reminded, clearly and brutally, that she is the author of his story, now; what she does next will have a direct impact on him, too. 

She can only hope it won’t be an earthquake or a tsunami or a sword’s glistening edge.

She can only hope to postpone the worst of things, and that fate will be gentle to him.

When they find each other after dinner, he envelops her in his arms, and a flame blooms inside her like a rose. But then he tells her of a _mission_ , another one, and the warmth she felt at his touch quickly evaporates.

“You can’t,” she says without thinking. “Charlie. You _can’t_.”

His hands are on her shoulders, and when she meets his eye, there is no fear. She sees only embers burning low, yearning for more fuel.

“Silena, starlight,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so soft. She could crawl into the sound and sleep in it. “It’s only for a day. I’ll have Perce with me. We trust him, don’t we?”

 “We do,” Silena agrees, but her insides are screaming _hypocrite, hypocrite_ because who is she to speak of trust?

“We’ll be planting explosives in the _Andromeda_ ,” Charlie tells her. She wishes he wouldn’t. “And we’ll blow it up. Picture it—the ship goes up in flames, Castellan is defeated, _finally_ , and me and Perce come back _heroes_ —”

“You’re _already_ a hero,” Silena tells him fondly, and the grin that splits his face provides enough solar energy to power the lights of a mansion for years.

She presses her lips to his, swallows his laughter and makes it her own. The fires spill from them, overpowering, and there’s enough of it to envelop the whole of the earth, enough to fill the empty chasms in the darkest of hearts.

“I’d never leave you,” Charlie promises.

And Silena says, “I know.”

* * *

“Luke can’t protect him.”

It was the gentle tap of a finger against the window of the Aphrodite cabin that woke her. At first, she lay still, seized with the impression that it was only the rain.

But rainclouds don’t shed in the sweltering seasons. Then she heard her name, whispered in the deep velvet of the night, almost like a prayer, and, at last, she rose from her bunk and slipped outside.

Now she’s standing at the edge of the lake with Ethan Nakamura, and he’s throwing pebbles into the water with more force than she thinks is really necessary. Agony outlines his every movement, or something close to it; there’s a smear of blood on the front of his shirt, like someone dragged bloody palms across his chest, and he stops every few seconds to claw at himself as if he wants to break free from his own skin.

“I thought so,” Silena says. When she searches for the truth in her words, she’s surprised when she actually _finds_ it, and then she hates herself _for_ finding it.

Ethan raises his arm, a smooth pebble clenched in his fist. His veins are pale cerulean, made prominent by the even paler moonlight and the tensing of his bones.

“It’s not that he won’t. It’s that he _can’t_ ,” Ethan whispers, and his syllables are distorted and rocky with real fear. “Luke, I mean. He’s not himself.”

“He hasn’t been for a long time.”

But Ethan regards her with a troubled expression, and she guesses that _this_ —this is something more.

“It’s Kronos,” he murmurs. “He’s been possessed by Kronos.” He lowers his arm at long last; the pebble never makes it into the water. He’s looking past Silena now, to the towering trees behind her, to the forest where the campers used to play capture-the-flag before horror struck their hearts and red painted their swords.

“Can you help me?”

Ethan’s question is uttered with the sort of helplessness that only the truly desperate can achieve. It’s so quiet that it could have been part of the silence itself.

“Help with _what_?” Silena asks. She isn’t sure she _wants_ to help him, what with all the damage he’s caused. With his military haircut such a stark contrast from the unruly black locks of his childhood and the blood on his shirt—on his _hands_ —it’s hard, it’s _really_ hard, to sympathize with him.

But Silena, too, has _already_ helped in the causing of this damage. She made this possible. The Titans stepped through, but it was she who opened the gates.

She’s just as guilty of treason as Ethan is.

They’re the _same_.

“You can help me save Luke,” Ethan says, and Silena very nearly chokes on her own spit.

Children of Nemesis are _fair_. Not always nice, or pleasant to be around, but always, always fair. And if Ethan thinks Luke deserves to live—

“Why?” is the only thing she can think to say.

“Because he deserves another chance,” he answers, without missing a beat. “We all do, Silena. We all do.”

Silena drinks this in during the silence that follows. She doesn’t understand— _any of it_ , really, because some people can’t be trusted with the second chance that Ethan speaks of—like _Luke Castellan_ , for example.

Except—the torment simmering in Ethan’s soul mirrors her own, and so she finds herself saying, “I’ll do it. I’ll try. But only if you protect Charlie for me.”

“ _Beckendorf_? But he’s—”

“He’ll be going on your ship tomorrow morning, along with Percy.” She takes a deep breath, tastes the pristine air of the night. She tries not to think about the fact that she’s offering up information freely; instead she tells herself the same thing she always has. _This is all for Charlie_. “They’ll have explosives, Ethan. Don’t let him get hurt, and I’ll try to find ways to get Luke back.”

“Thank you,” Ethan breathes, and he steps forward. He makes as if to embrace her, but he remembers that they aren’t friends anymore, and stops in his tracks. “ _Thank you_.”

And his gratitude is wasted, and so is Silena’s sliver of hope, but neither of them know that yet.

* * *

When the explosion happens, Ethan is scrambling towards the engine room with Alabaster at his heels. He’s trying not think of just how _close_ he got to turning in Beckendorf despite his promise to Silena. It was like second nature, it was as if it was in his programming, it was like _mind control_. Molten gold eyes are still haunting him when Alabaster lunges past him and yanks open the door of the engine room with a wordless shout.

That’s when the first wave of heat surges toward them.

“We’re too late!” Ethan yells. “Take—”

He meant to say, _Take cover_ , but there’s deafening _clang_ as Alabaster slams the door shut as if it’ll do any good against the onslaught of flames that is sure to follow, and the sound drowns out his words. Alabaster’s eyes are wild and panicked and he opens his mouth to say something, but there’s no time, no time, because Ethan’s shouting again but this time it’s overpowered by an ear-splitting _BOOM_ and all he sees is _red_ , but then it gives way to pitch black darkness, and he can’t see Alabaster anymore, he can’t see _anything_ , he can’t even _feel_ —

And he’s drifting—

He’s drifting in a vast, empty space and the ghosts of dreams are brushing past him and he’s—

Drifting—

Until he _isn’t_.

He’s—still drifting, but not like _that,_ no, he’s drifting through the sea, with crashing waves and salt water that he accidentally takes in because he can’t seem to stop gasping for air. His skin stings practically everywhere.

Glancing around, he notices a faint green bubble of light enveloping him. With some shifting—maybe a little panicked, just a _little_ —it becomes evident that it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. He blinks and sees Alabaster a little ways off, surrounded by his own bubble. He must have cushioned their fall.

There’s wreckage littering the sea. Ethan catches sight of lone pieces of steel being engulfed in the waves. Lifesavers with no bearers. Water, water, water. 

“Al!” he cries, and he tries to wade towards the other, but a sharp pain jolts down his forearm and he has to stop, has to still his spinning head.

He wastes no time inspecting the injury; instead, he grits his teeth and swims towards his comrade, finding a lifesaver and pushing it towards him. Alabaster grabs onto it, his nails  _almost_  piercing the rubber and ruining it. Up close, Ethan notices that his skin isn’t burned the way Ethan’s must be—his magic must have protected him.

“Al,” Ethan pants, reaching him just as the green lights around both of them dissolve. “Are you all right?”

“ _You’re_ the one with the peeling skin. Seriously, you’re hideous.” Alabaster grimaces. “Nothing that magic can’t fix, though. Let me help.” His clothes are soaked, but he still shoves a hand into his pockets and extracts a Sharpie marker. He draws several alien-looking symbols directly on Ethan’s burned skin with quick, nimble precision, ignoring Ethan’s muffled sounds of protest. “What else?”

“My arm,” Ethan says. “I think it’s fractured. Or something.”

“Give me your hand. Palm up.” When Ethan does, he draws another shape on Ethan’s palm. Immediately, pain in his arm, the stinging on his skin—it all begins to dissipate until it dissolves altogether.

Before Ethan can thank him, there’s a screech from somewhere to his right, and both of them jerk their heads in the direction of the sound.

“We have to see this,” Alabaster says.

Alabaster doesn’t wait for Ethan to respond. He merely guides the lifesaver forwards, leaving Ethan to follow. Swimming lessons were part of their training, but they can’t swim like this—with wreckage in the waves and no sight of shore for miles. 

Alabaster stops suddenly, and Ethan looks up.

And it’s Beckendorf.

It’s _Beckendorf_.

He’s on a strange sort of metal sheet that serves as a raft, and Ethan wonders _how_ he got a hold of it, but then he remembers—he’s the child of an _Olympian_. Children of Olympians can do practically _anything_.

Beckendorf is on his knees, breathing heavily, sword still clutched in his grip; he’s probably just fought with someone, or some _thing_. Ethan watches him set it on the surface of the raft. His face is impaired by cuts and scratches and burns and there’s a clean rip traveling the length of his pants leg where a beast—a telekhine?—ran its claws through it. 

Blood is pooling around his feet. 

For a second, Ethan is glad that Silena isn’t here to see the sight.

“Get me closer,” he tells Alabaster.

He has to protect Beckendorf. He _has_ to, for Silena, and for Luke, too.

Alabaster balks. “Closer?” he repeats. “We should be leaving him out here to rot and die in a puddle of his own blood. Nakamura, this guy is our _enemy_.”

“Not mine, he isn’t,” says Ethan, heedless of the risk he’s taking. Alabaster could report to Kronos about this, about his betrayal, but in this moment, that doesn’t matter. There is only Charles Beckendorf and Silena’s promise. 

Alabaster frowns, but he obeys. He doesn’t have any choice; after all, as first lieutenant, Ethan’s rank is higher than his.

Ethan clambers onto Beckendorf’s raft when he’s close enough. The son of Hephaestus eyes him warily, but he must recognize him from camp, because he doesn’t make any move to attack.

Ethan raises his empty palms, too. He lost his dagger to the fire.

“You,” says Beckendorf, and his voice is harsh and unyielding like the metal he works with. “I know you. You’re Ethan Nakamura.”

“I am.”

“You’re not on my side.”

“I am,” Ethan says again, “for now. Silena sent me.”

“ _Silena_?” Beckendorf repeats disbelievingly, but something about this disbelief is— _off_. Forced. Learned from a book. “How do you know Silena?”

“She was my friend,” says Ethan, and something inside him recoils at how easily the past tense comes to him. “She sent me to protect you, so I’m getting you out of here. You’re safe with me.”

“How do I know this isn’t another trap?” Ethan’s dismayed when Beckendorf’s dark eyes dart towards Alabaster. He sees Beckendorf’s fingers brush against the hilt of the sword still lying by his feet. 

That sword won’t remain stationary forever. Ethan is painfully aware of it.

“She once told me that she loves you more than love itself,” he blurts. It’s the truth, and it’s the only thing that just might make Beckendorf believe him. He prays to his aunt Tykhe that Beckendorf will realize that it was not a lie, before remembering that he _can’t_ , because his aunt has sided with the Olympians, too.

He allows himself a brief second to hate his mother.

Beckendorf smiles, and Ethan frowns, because if he trusts Titan Army demigods _this_ easily, then—

“She did, didn’t she?”

Ethan nods. “Yes.”

His eyes are glazed and misty and vague when he looks toward the horizon. “I’ll miss her.”

“What?” Ethan starts. “You’ll be seeing her soon. We’re getting you back to camp.” He thinks he hears Alabaster scoff, but he might’ve just imagined it.

“There’s poison already in my system,” Beckendorf informs. He gestures towards the rip in his pants leg. “An empousai got me. _Bit_ me. Like a vampire. And I lost my ambrosia packets in the explosion.”

It’s only then that Ethan thinks to search his own person for ambrosia packets. His blood sings with hope, but his pockets are empty, too.

“We’re getting you home,” Ethan repeats firmly, and he’s just about to try to steer the raft in the direction of— _he doesn’t know_ , he just needs to get _somewhere_ —

And then—

Suddenly Beckendorf’s spine jerks ramrod-straight. He’s wheezing like the air’s been knocked out of him; his brown eyes are blown wide. An eerie green light encircles him, and Ethan scrambles back in a mindless panic, paying the pain in his arm no heed.

“ _Silena_ ,” Beckendorf chokes. “Can you tell her—tell her that I knew? And it isn’t her fault. It isn’t—it _isn’t_ —”

Ethan doesn’t understand what he’s saying, doesn’t understand what he means, but he nods once, numbly, and then Beckendorf’s eyes are softening. He gasps once more, and then he manages, “You’re a good man, Nakamura.”

The emerald light fades.

Beckendorf falls face-first onto the surface of the raft. The impact jars not only the contraption, but Ethan’s bones, too; the sea sloshes around him, and for a second he thinks he really _is_ going to sink like a stone.

Beckendorf doesn’t move.

Ethan doesn’t hear him suck in any more breaths, either.

“No,” he murmurs. “ _No_ —”

Heart pounding, he crawls forward as quickly as he can, pushes Beckendorf so he’s lying on his back, trying to ignore how it’s just dead weight, ignoring the chance that he’s holding just another vacant body with no soul within. He presses an ear to the other boy’s chest and listens, listens, _listens_ , strains his ears and listens some more, but there is no heartbeat, only an echoing hollowness.

That’s when the realization strikes him like a viper.

This sort of death could only have been achieved by magic.

He looks behind him, at Alabaster Torrington, the son of Hecate who was so silent that Ethan forgot his presence altogether, so engrossed was he in his task of saving Beckendorf. The task that he failed because of Alabaster.

A trail of foreboding crawls up Ethan’s spine. 

“Hey, Nakamura?” Alabaster drawls. “Remember to wash off those markings as soon as you can.” He smiles at Ethan, and it is a ghastly one, brimming with a victory he didn’t deserve. “Isopropyl alcohol works best.”

* * *

Silena hears the news on a sunny morning with the choirs of the birds crowding the air.

The beautiful blue day turns gray and bleak in an instant.

Her first instinct is to deny it. She whispers, “No, no, no” over and over to herself, because if she says it often enough, maybe she can undo it. Maybe she can make it so things happened differently on the _Andromeda_ —she can make it so things happened differently the night before, and Charlie would never have left. Maybe she can coax the threads of fate into uncoiling in reverse.

When Clarisse wraps her strong arms around Silena, though, she knows that her internal battle is a lost one.

Clarisse makes hot chocolate for her, and reheats the mug in the microwave when it goes cold in the time Silena stares at it without really seeing it, without taking a sip. Clarisse never ceases her barricade of kind words, soothing ones, and Silena doesn’t know when Clarisse started calling her _sweetheart_ , but it reminds her of Charlie and makes her feel a little better.

It’s— _nice_ , after all, to know that he will be remembered, that his name won’t be erased from the camp records.

Still, she cries. And cries. And cries.

When she finally brings the hot chocolate to her lips, she finds the sweetness of it contaminated by the salt of her tears. And so she swallows her own sadness, feels the sting of it in her throat.

She swallows it before it can swallow _her_.

* * *

Ethan Nakamura is the last person she wants to see in light of recent events, but he still shows up that night anyway, with a wary eye and Sharpie drawings from his palms to his forearms that weren’t there before.

It is just after the burning of Charlie’s shroud, and the campers are still awake and wandering. Silena doesn’t care; she doesn’t warn Ethan of the risks he’s taking, showing up at an hour like this. Some part of her _wants_ him to get caught.

It’s his fault just as much as it is hers.

They meet behind the empty Zeus cabin, and Ethan falls to his knees and chokes, “I’m _sorry_. I tried to save him. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry.” He draws his dagger, and Silena, unthinkingly, goes for the weapon hidden in her high-heeled boot, too, but he places his knife on the grass by his feet and keeps his gaze down.

Her mind can’t quite comprehend what she’s seeing.

And then he confirms the worst of her fears. “Kill me. Please.”

She doesn’t move. Neither does he. He’s just— _kneeling_ there, the blade of his knife lying in the green growth, gleaming in the half-light of the dusk like a taunt.

She _can_ do it. She can slit his throat. She can finish what she didn’t have the nerve to do on the engine room of the _Princess Andromeda_ —the same ship where _Charlie_ died—and thrust the blade into Ethan’s chest. He _deserves_ it.

She can kill him, if she wanted.

But she _doesn’t_ want to.

“ _Get up_ ,” she hisses, and when Ethan still doesn’t move, she grabs his wrists with a gentleness that contradicts her tone and hauls him up. She puts a hand under his chin and forces him to meet her glare, but her heart softens when she sees that he’s been crying, too. The remnants of tears are still glistening in his right eye.

“Tell me what happened.” She doesn’t will her voice to be light and soft and easy; it just _is_.

So he speaks. It’s his turn to confide in her, now. Silena listens to him speak of empousai venom and a monstrous explosion and the color of envy reflected in a ghostly light, and as she does, her heart grows heavier, and heavier, and heavier, until she staggers beneath the weight of it.

“And he wanted me to tell you.” Ethan’s words sound… _stifled_ , like he’s squeezing them from his windpipe. “He said that he knew. And that it isn’t your fault.”

There’s the slightest trace of doubt in his voice, the slightest trace of _did-I-hear-it-correctly?_ Because he doesn’t understand, does he? He will never fathom, never, the sort of connection that ran through Charlie and Silena like Venetian canals. No one else can, and no one else  _will_.

But Silena understands. She understands that she’s been forgiven.

She only looks at him for a long moment; words are too much and too little. Finally she inclines her head towards the Zeus cabin and says, “Come on. There might be some Band-Aids inside.”

Ethan frowns. “Silena, I—”

She pulls open the door of the cabin and casts a few furtive glances to ensure that the area is deserted, that no one will be able to see accuse her of helping an enemy demigod. “Inside. Quickly.”

Ethan hesitates before ducking into the cabin. Silena locks the door behind her with a sweaty hand. If any of the other campers discover them—

She shakes her head. No. Let them find her. Let them know the truth, at long last. 

She tells Ethan to sit on the lone bunk and finds an unopened first aid kit in one of the drawers. She’s turning to him with the intention of patching up all his numerous minor scrapes when it hits her. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” she starts, sitting down next to him on the bunk and setting the first aid kit on the floorboards. “I’m glad you’re not burned to a crisp or anything, but— _how_?”

“I  _was_ burned,” Ethan mutters. “Alabaster healed me, though. Sort of.” He pauses. “Speaking of—he’s the one who drew all this stuff on me. I don’t know why, but I don’t want _anything_ to do with him anymore after, uh, after what happened, so—” He stops again. “Do you have—isopropyl alcohol?”

“I have nail polish remover,” she says. She fishes it out from her handbag and tosses it to him.

They’re only sitting half a foot apart, but Ethan lunges to catch the half-empty bottle. Despite everything, his mouth quirks upwards in a smile. “Of course you do. That’ll work, too. Thank you.”

He takes a cotton ball from the first aid kit at their feet and sets to work in silence.

Silena squints at the symbols, frowning. “Um, Ethan?”

He makes a noncommittal grunting noise in the back of his throat. 

“Those are _protective marks._ Are you  _sure_ you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing at his arms almost furiously. “I don’t care. I don’t want the protection if it’s from _him_.”

“Hey,” says Silena, grabbing hold of his wrist. “Stop it. You’re supposed to press the cotton _to_ your skin for a few moments, to let it soak in.” She sighs. “Here, I’ll do it for you. Hold still.”

Ethan falls quiet again while Silena cleans the marker from his skin. When his hands are devoid of any ink, she applies antibiotic cream to the scrapes on his elbows even though they’re already dry, before covering them with Band-Aids.

“Have you had any ambrosia yet?” she asks, feeling a little foolish for not asking sooner. “Nectar?”

“I did, back at the—back at the base.” Ethan winces when Silena presses another bandage to the side of his neck; there’s a cut that hasn’t quite dried yet. “Silena. Why are you doing this?”

Her hands still, almost of their own accord. She sits back on her heels and regards him.

“I don’t know,” she admits. Then she adds, “Weren’t you the one who said everyone deserves a second chance? Or something like that?”

Ethan laughs, but there is no mirth. “You know, when I said that, I wasn’t really talking about myself.”

“But you _are_ part of ‘everyone,’” she points out.

He looks at his lap and doesn’t respond.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I guess it’s in our nature, really, to help one another. In the end, it doesn’t matter if we’re sworn enemies. I’ll still patch up your wounds if I can, and you’ll still wear _that_.” She nods at the bracelet on Ethan’s right wrist.

She doesn’t realize that Ethan’s begun to cry until he makes an ugly sound, half sob, half snort. She should’ve brought tissues in her handbag, but she didn’t, so she cups his face in her hands and wipes away his tears with her right thumb.

“I’m really s-sorry,” Ethan gurgles. “You, and Beckendorf, and maybe Luke—it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have—I _shouldn’t_ have—” He coughs. The snot must make it hard for him to speak.

At the mention of Charlie’s name, Silena’s heart gives another painful lurch. She blinks rapidly to dispel her own tears, but they still trail down her cheek. Ethan reaches out and wipes _those_  away, too.

Part of her wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Here they are, both in the same endless stream of sorrow, both trying and failing to put a smile on for the other.

She can’t tell if it’s working, or even what their goal _is_. 

“I’m so lonely,” Ethan chokes suddenly. “I’m so _lonely_ , but I—I shouldn’t be. I broke my promise. I should be _dead_.” 

Silena takes a shuddering breath. “D-don’t say that,” she whispers, voice hoarser than she thought it’d be. “You’re here now, aren’t you? That _has_ to count for something, so don’t hurt yourself. Don’t you _dare_. It’s almost over. All of it. Let it be known that it wasn’t our fault.” 

“Then _who_?” Ethan takes his hands away from her to wipe his right eye with his sleeve. “Who is to blame, if not us?”

“I don’t know,” Silena rasps. “I—I _don’t_ _know_. Maybe it doesn’t matter who started it. Maybe it only matters who ends it.”

She’s such a _traitor_ , she really is, trying to talk the enemy out of a gaping sadness like this. But perhaps Ethan was never the enemy.

Still—

“You can’t keep visiting me like this,” she says, blinking away the last of her tears. “Kronos would kill you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, but _I_ care. Just—don’t do it anymore, okay?”

Ethan still looks unhappy, but he sniffs and nods once. “Thanks for the bandages.”

Silena manages a smile, somehow. “You’re welcome.”

Ten minutes to midnight, Silena helps him sneak out of the camp. He tells her where the Titans’ new base camp is located even though he’s not technically  _supposed_ to, and then he melts into the night, almost as if he was never there.

* * *

Ethan doesn’t expect to see the sun rise the next morning. He doesn’t— _deserve_ to, not after his failure, the force of which knocked the course of serendipity astray. He should have met his end yesterday, at Silena’s hands, instead of bawling like a child; he should have _paid_ for his mistake.

The world doesn’t seem to care, and he sees the sun anyway.

This unpaid price, he thinks, will haunt him for years. Since yesterday, he’s begun living a borrowed life.

Their new base is located at an eerie so-called _gnome emporium_ with wild-eyed statues sculpted in the most intricate of poses. Except— _no_ , not _sculpted_ , because these statues are so complex that no artist could have created them by hand. They’re _unnatural_.

They were, Ethan thinks, probably created by some sort of magic.

He isn’t all that fond of magic anymore.

Alabaster fails to seek him out during the day. At first, when Ethan became aware of Alabaster’s malicious intent, he was frightened; now he yearns for Alabaster’s success. Dying at Silena’s hands would have been Ethan’s preferred method of execution—she, at least, would have been merciful—but dying at _Alabaster’s_ hands is better than no death at all. 

Tonight, perhaps.

It’s Prometheus who summons him, and Ethan leaves the campfire with trepidation resting heavy on his chest. The Titans are beings of fire and gold, and Ethan has grown to despise their presence. Sometimes it’s hard to recall the reason why he’s fighting for _them_ ; always, he told himself it was for his mother.

This time he tells himself something different. This time, he admits that he is a fool.

But his pulse still fails when he sees Luke— _not Luke_ —and the vat of all things devilish boiling beneath Kronos’ expression, the expression he places over Luke’s true features like a mask. Ethan still holds his breath; he still feels sweat collect on his palms when those golden eyes rest upon him.

And he still obeys them. He releases the drakon and contacts Lord Helios, and goes to stand at the head of the vanguard for their final round of drills before the battle. Left face. Right face. Right flank march. Left column march. Parade rest. The platoons are perfectly synchronized in their movements.

 _Soon_ , he promises Silena.

* * *

“Tell me more about yourself.”

The question falls from Alabaster’s mouth like an avalanche, unavoidable and potentially devastating. They are sitting around a campfire—or rather, _across_ from each other, since it’s only the two of them. There are _other_ campfires, too, but Ethan isn’t friends with anyone else. Actually, he’s _barely_ friends with Alabaster. It reminds Ethan of Camp Half-Blood and he doesn’t know what to do with such a thought. 

At the sound of Alabaster’s voice, Ethan looks up and blinks at him. “Huh?”

Alabaster sighs. “Here, I’ll start. My name’s Alabaster C. Torrington, son of Hecate, from Keeseville. I know only two of my half-sisters—Lou Ellen, whom I adore even though she’s stupid for siding with the Olympians, and one of my mothers’ monsters. I hate her. I won’t talk about her. And I’m with the Titans.” He nods at Ethan. “Your turn.”

“What?” Ethan feels as intelligent as a rock.

Alabaster heaves a breath. “I just want to know whose side you’re on, really.”

Ethan’s stomach lurches, even though it shouldn’t. He _knew_ this conversation would be inevitable. He knows he doesn’t deserve to live and he knows that Alabaster can kill him.

Still, he arches an eyebrow. His pulse is already sputtering, faltering, _dying_. “You never cared before.”

“People change. You know that.”

It’s suddenly difficult to look Alabaster in the eyes, so Ethan stares at the fire before them instead.

A long pause; Ethan thinks, and Alabaster waits.

At length he says, “I don’t have a middle name.  My home was in Kyoto and now I have none. I used to have a foster sister, except I don’t remember what she was called.” _Silena kind of reminds me of her and it’s almost like having real memories_ , he nearly says, but catches himself just in time. “I...I’m on my own side.”

For a moment, Alabaster only squints at him for a long, long time, with something like disbelief crawling in the crooks of his complexion. Then he _laughs_.

“No, _seriously_ ,” he says, and he can’t quite keep the unrefined snorting from his words. “Stop dicking around. Gods. I didn’t think you even  _knew_ how to crack a joke.”

Ethan laces his fingers together in his lap and steadily avoids the other’s gaze. Because—he’s so close, he’s _so close_ to avenging Beckendorf, avenging Luke, _maybe_ even starting to heal Silena’s broken heart and _maybe_ his own. It would be foolish of him to allow his temper to get the better of him at a time like this. It would be foolish.

_It would be foolish._

He can’t afford to be foolish. Not yet. 

He tells himself it’s probably okay for him to live a little longer. Just long enough to glue things back together.

“Oh, Jesus,” Alabaster says, when Ethan still doesn’t laugh with him, doesn’t admit that yes, it was all nothing more than a childish prank. “So you’re _not_ dicking around, then? You’re _actually_ planning on deserting?” He lets out a low whistle. “Man, you’ve got some nerve.”

Ethan is planning on doing something that’s probably worse than deserting, but he says, “Are you kidding? You don’t really think I’d be dim enough to do _that_ , right? I’d rather die than betray the Titans.”

He forces himself to smile. It feels stretched just a little too tight, _taut_ , but luckily Alabaster doesn’t seem to notice.

“I guess that answers my question, then, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees. These days, he can’t seem to stop lying.

“Well,” says Alabaster, getting to his feet. “Big day tomorrow, what with the drakon and everything. Didn’t Prometheus say it’s going to be the final battle or something like that? We should rest while we still can.”

“Drakon,” Ethan repeats, not really listening. “Right. Yeah. You go first. I’ll put out the fire.”

Alabaster casts him an odd glance. “Suit yourself,” he says, and then heads to the tent they share with three others.

When Alabaster is gone, Ethan sits dangerously close to the fire, hugging his knees to his chest, and frowns up at the stars. Silena will probably charge into battle in an attempt to— _redeem_ herself, or something. Regardless of what she told him when they last met, he _has_ to go to camp again. He has to protect her. He has to stop her from putting herself in danger.

Or at least—he should _try_ to. Sometimes there is no stopping Silena Beauregard.

It’s a long time before Ethan puts out the fire, and even longer until he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

“You have to stay out of this.”

Silena, kneeling by the footlockers, goes rigid. Tense. The door to the Ares cabin is slightly ajar, and for a moment, the heated touch of adrenaline reaches her. Nothing, no one, will stand in her way.

Ethan seems intent on doing just that.

It’s been weeks since the explosion. Since then, she’s slowly taught herself to stand on her own again. Ethan’s voice is steely and books no argument; there’s no trace of the sobbing mess she held in her hands the last time they met.

“You shouldn’t even _be_ here,” she says. She doesn’t need to look up to know that it’s him. She can recognize the sound of his voice anywhere; it’s the same voice she heard Charlie’s last words spoken in, after all. “Shouldn’t you be crawling back to the Titans? Fighting alongside Luke? Oh, sorry— _Lord Kronos_.”

Impatience sharpens her words to a knife’s point. She pictures the fresh wound in the same spot where the old one is still on the verge of convalesce, and hates herself immediately.

But when she looks over her shoulder at him, there’s none of the hurt she expected to see. He’s… _blank_. Empty.

“I know he’s dead, Beauregard.” He isn’t looking at her. She doesn’t think he’s looking at _anything_. “You don’t have to put it like that.”

Silena moves to inspect the bunks. The first has a full set of armor stashed below it, but it isn’t the particular one she has in mind. The second has only a chiton and a worn pteruges, but nothing else—no helmet, no cape, no greaves or sandals or doru, nothing.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It isn’t true,” Silena insists as she approaches the third bunk bed.

“Well, he’s as good as,” Ethan says, and it’s the emptiness with which he utters these words that stops her in her tracks.

She recognizes that emptiness.

“We’ve talked about this before,” she says. “You’ve come this far. You can’t give up now.”

“But I’m tired, Silena,” Ethan mutters. They’re standing at opposite ends of the cabin, but she hears him clearly, and his voice has the magnitude of the earthquake she feared. “I’m just— _gods._  I don’t even know.”

Silena is at a loss for words. She looks under the third bunk to stall for time, inspecting the things she can say, rolling them over in her mind and folding them into her tongue to test them, and— _jackpot_.

There it is.

Clarisse’s armor.

She’s all too aware of the seconds trickling past them, but she moves towards Ethan first. The sight of him hurting like this—no, not even _hurting_ ; hurting was what it looked like on the night of the explosion. He’s _devoid of emotion_ , and it doesn’t sit well with Silena. This can’t be any healthier than melancholy. She hesitates for a long moment before placing a hand on his shoulder.

She half expects him to shrug her off, but he doesn’t.

“I know,” she says. “I’m tired, too. I think—I think all of us are.”

“If everyone would just… _stop fighting_ —”

“Don’t you think justice has to be served?” She’s prying now, scavenging for even the smallest hint of his former self, the one who _felt_ things with such amplitude.

She looks for the believer in him and doesn’t find it.

“Fuck justice,” says Ethan. “Just give everyone happy endings. It’s easier that way. We’ve all suffered for too long.”

“And Luke?” Silena coerces. “He’s still there. Somewhere. You’ve seen it before, haven’t you? In the span of a single second? You’ve seen it. I know you have.”

Ethan regards her warily. He doesn’t respond.

Silena plows on. “Listen. Here’s what I think. If you love someone, if you _really_ love someone, you would die for them, yes, but you would  _live_ for them, too.” She exhales; the force of it stirs her fringe. “And…you’d fight for them. If you had to. It’s okay if one of those people is yourself. Honestly, I think one of those people  _should_ be yourself.”

Ethan still isn’t seeing her. He’s standing there, frozen, rooted to the spot, like an ancient evergreen.

Guilt wracks her insides, but she turns back to Clarisse’s armor. She _has_ to. The Ares campers won’t fight otherwise.

Snapping out of his stupor, he says for the second time, “You have to stay out of this.” 

“I can’t,” Silena tells him, as easily as if she’s discussing the weather forecast. “I have to do this. The Ares cabin will only follow Clarisse.”

Ethan claws a hand through his hair, perplexed. “Clarisse?”

“Never mind.” She straps on Clarisse’s pteruges with practiced ease. “This is her armor. If they think I’m her, they’ll fight with us. We don’t stand a chance otherwise.” She winces, tightens her fingers around the greave she’s just picked up. “Sorry. I meant—”

Ethan isn’t listening. “Kronos has a _drakon_ , Silena. Do you _know_ what a drakon is?”

She finishes with the rest of the armor and straightens, cradling Clarisse’s carefully polished helmet. Her eyes find Ethan’s, and she allows a smile to steal across her lips for the briefest of moments. “ _Kronos_ has a drakon?” She toes on Clarisse’s sandals and waits for him to answer, but again, he doesn’t, and so she presses, “Not you?”

“Just Kronos.”

Silena’s veins overflow with the sort of golden joy she hasn’t had the luxury of feeling since the explosion on the _Andromeda_.

She gathers her hair back in a ponytail and secures Clarisse’s helmet over her head before moving towards the door, heart thumping a steady rhythm on her chest and adrenaline singing in her blood, but Ethan blocks her path. She frowns.

“You’ll get killed out there,” he hisses.

“I can handle myself,” she seethes.

“It’s a _drakon_. It’s a great hulking snakelike _thing_ with teeth the size of coffins, and—”

“I know what it is, all right?” The blitheness in her voice does not betray a single echo of her hollow fear. She’s seen the pictures. She’s read the legends. She knows what they’re capable of.

She tells Ethan, “I have to do this,” and tries to push past him, but he isn’t the amateur swordsman he was six years ago, not anymore. She tries to fake lunging for the left before lunging a true right, like a basketball player, but Ethan follows her movements easily, smooth as a river.

The Titans have trained him well. She’s already really, _really_ pissed, but this unbidden thought angers her even further.

“Let me _through_ ,” she snarls.

“I’ll fight you if I have to,” he says, and his solemn tone makes it sound like an oath. “Right here. Right now. Just—you _can’t go out there_.”

“Try me.”

“I can’t let you do this.”

“ _Let_ me?” She laughs, and the sound is alien, shrill, and it scrapes at her own eardrums. Ethan winces. “Honestly, Ethan. Contrary to popular belief, Aphrodite _is_ strong, and her strength extends to her children, too. I can knock you out right here. I can look after myself.”

She doesn’t voice the rest of her thoughts: that even if she _does_ die tonight, at least she can see Charlie again.

And maybe he can stop haunting her dreams.

It dawns on her that Ethan is intent on keeping her locked in a shadow, a _mirage_ of safety. Safety isn’t something she wants. What she really needs is to get out there and urge the Ares campers to _fight_.

“I know you can,” Ethan starts, “but I have to try. I don’t think you realize that this is a _drakon_ you’re up against, and _I released it myself_ —”

“Listen,” she interrupts. “I’m sorry; I really am. But we’ll end this. We’ll be the ones who come full circle.” She takes a deep breath—not to brace herself for what she will say next, but what she will _do_ next. “It’ll be fine. I’ll see you again, all right?”

 _One way or another_ , she thinks, but doesn’t say.

She turns and makes a run for the window. She yanks it open and steals out into the night like a thief, disregarding Ethan’s sharp intake of breath and his surprised shout.

Because she has to do this.

She  _has_ to. 

* * *

Clarisse’s armor is at least two sizes too large for her; Silena lumbers through the streets of New York City with no small amount of difficulty. Every second, she worries that one of the Ares campers will see through her ploy and expose her for it, but they do nothing but clap her on the back and cheer for her.

It was a little _too_ easy. She found the Ares campers sparring with each other as usual in the arena, laughing and talking as if it were a normal day. As if the rest of camp hadn’t left just a few minutes ago to go to war.

Silena has always admired the other girl’s fearlessness. It was something she lacked at the moment; she fully intended to bellow at the top of her lungs, the way Clarisse might, but she lost her nerve at the very last moment and stepped into the arena hesitantly, an anticlimactic appearance. She merely raised her arm, and…the Ares campers _looked_ at her.

And now they follow her into battle.

They follow her into death.

* * *

The pain begins behind her brows, a raging headache; the pounding of it drowns out the panicked scramble of the others around her. Then it courses through the rest of her—her limbs, her joints, _everywhere_ —and she can’t move, she can’t _breathe_ , and she falls back, her legs failing to support her weight.

Her armor—or rather, Clarisse’s armor, stolen—reeks of venom. With every breath she takes, she inhales more of the toxic fumes. She sucks in a breath and _holds_ it, holds it for as long as she can manage, which isn’t all that much; her lungs nearly burst with the effort.

A crowd of familiar faces appears above her. There are hands, many hands, clamoring to pry the helmet from her head. Panicked whispers, the flutter of fingers brushing her cheek. Every heartbeat rattles her bones; she is left breathless and quaking on the pavement.

But Clarisse La Rue’s booming voice echoing around the street jars her in the way physical torment never will.

“ _NO!”_

Silena looks into her friend’s face, takes in the blood and the tear tracks on Clarisse’s cheeks. She’s screaming, “What were you _thinking?_ ” and Silena wants to answer, but it hurts too much when she so much as opens her mouth, it hurts, it hurts, _it hurts_ —

She thinks she must have blacked out, because when she pries open her eyes again, Clarisse’s helmet is lying on the floor beside her, and Clarisse herself isn’t by her side. The daughter of Ares is—is—

Chasing the drakon—

She has her spear in hand, but she’s not holding a shield, and she isn’t wearing any armor, either. She’s charging the drakon in _jeans and a T-shirt_ —

Silena sits up too quickly; she’s dizzy with pain, but she still cries out, “ _Clarisse!_ ” Her vision has gone hazy, but she can still make out the hazy shape of her friend battling the drakon, a blur of angry war cries and dancing limbs.

The drakon lies in the middle of the street, dead.

_Dead._

Clarisse just fought a drakon single-handedly and _won_ , but she doesn’t take the time to celebrate. She’s back at Silena’s side in a flash.

“You just… _killed a drakon_ ,” Silena marvels, but Clarisse ignores her, cupping her face in her hands instead.

“What were you _thinking_?” she demands a second time. “Silena, Silena. Why? Why did you do this?”

“The Ares campers,” Silena manages. “They—they wouldn’t fight. We—didn’t stand a chance. I had to do it,” she adds. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re such a fucking _idiot_ ,” Clarisse tells her, and Silena tries to smile, but the skin around her mouth feels burned, stretched too tight, _painful_.

The world fades in and out of her vision. Every thundering beat of her pulse hurts her. This heart, she thinks, will not beat forever.

If these are to be her final moments, she knows what she must do.

With fumbling fingers, she finds the scythe charm tucked beneath her shirt. She holds it up so the assembled crowd can see the silver glinting in the sunlight, so they can see the truth of her treachery.

Percy is the one who speaks for all to hear. “It was you,” he says. He sounds numb. “You were the spy.”

She tries to nod, but the best she can manage is a short jerk of the head. “He—Luke—threatened me. He said—he said—he said that he would protect Charlie. He _said_ he would. But he… _didn’t_.”

She’s horrified to find that there are fresh tears clinging to her lashes. She thought she was _finished_ with this. With crying. With being weak. She’s crying so much that she nearly chokes on her own tears.

But Clarisse says, “Oh, Silena. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s okay to cry.” She leans over Silena, tucks a loose strand of black hair behind her ear, and offers a weak smile. “You’re so brave, girl. You’re a hero, you understand? A _hero_ , and the strongest one I know at that. I’ll vaporize anyone who so much as _tries_ to suggest otherwise.”

“Thank you,” Silena chokes, and then a stray laugh bubbles inside of her and escapes through her lips, floating up into the air, a rare golden sound in such a dark sky. The pain has lessened; it isn’t fading the way a healing wound would have. She knows it’s still there; the sensations, _all_ sensations, are merely dwindling, moving beyond her reach.

“I’ll be fine,” she whispers to no one in particular. “At least I can…see Charlie again…”

It is this thought that accompanies her as she drifts, slowly, surely, into the gentle embrace of a deeper slumber than she’s ever encountered.

* * *

Ethan shouldn’t be seeing Luke, but he _is_. It’s Luke shouting at Percy Jackson, Annabeth Chase and Thalia Grace. It’s _Luke_ fighting them, trying to _kill_ them; it’s _Luke_ whom Ethan is plotting against.

All he sees is Luke.

But—it _isn’t_ Luke.

He _knows_ this.

And yet—

His fingers are clammy; the hilt of his sword nearly slips from his grasp. He notes, with a dull horror, that his whole body is shaking.

Because—he resists the urge to laugh at himself, though nothing about this situation is funny _at all_ —despite this, despite what he told Silena, despite _everything_ , he still allowed himself a meager amount of hope. It was a thought lodged somewhere deep in his ribcage, tucked away from the senseless color of the rest of the world. It was a thought that sounded like, _Maybe. Just maybe—_

Ethan tells himself that it was a stupid thought, but it doesn’t go away.

It’s still unsettling, though, to see a scythe clenched in Luke’s hands instead of Backbiter’s vicious, stinging teeth. Or maybe it’s just the…the _golden eyes_.

It’s probably the golden eyes.

 _Fuck_ , Ethan thinks.

Percy Jackson is probably an idiot, charging at the Lord of Time alone like that. Annabeth Chase tries to join him, but Ethan’s senses come back to him just in time and he _lunges_ at her. Their swords meet in an X in midair; the force sends sparks flying.

Ethan grits his teeth.

“Why are you doing this?” Chase asks, and Ethan scowls at her. He’s only spoken to this girl once or twice. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t understand why she cares, or why she should, or even  _if_ she should.

He bites out, “Isn’t it obvious by now?”

Their swords meet again; this time, Chase puts enough force behind her blade that Ethan nearly loses his balance for a dangerous second.

“For _fairness_ , was it?” The flare in her irises takes him aback. It is a vivid flame, despite the dull gray color of her eyes. “Is that really worth killing, and hurting so many others? How does killing innocent people help any of us at all?”

 _How many of us are innocent, really?_ is the question he _actually_  wants to ask, but what comes out is, “What makes you think I _chose_ to kill?”

“If you don’t want to do this,” she says, tone surprisingly firm for someone locked in a duel, “then why are you still doing it anyway?”

And then all Ethan sees is red.

Because—she doesn’t _understand_ , of course she doesn’t. Olympian Army demigods are all the same; they want an ideal world, no fire or storm, not even so much as the threat of thunder. They don’t realize that there is no such thing as an ideal world; there is only a _slightly better_ world.

But she’s…she’s _right_.

_She’s right._

_No ideal world—_

_But isn’t she right?_

And then a quieter voice joins his medley of thoughts, whispering, _Didn’t you want to heal Silena? Heal yourself? What would she want?_

Another voice, the smallest one yet, offers an answer: _She would want peace, too._

But there has always been war inside Ethan, and now it seeps out of his body, propels his sword arm forward, and he snaps, “Aren’t you doing exactly the same, Chase?”

The query catches her off guard; her mouth slackens, and Ethan’s blade just barely manages to nick her cheek before she recovers from her stupor and— _slams into him_ , and Ethan falls to his knees. His sword clatters to the ground.

“I hate you,” he hisses, but Annabeth Chase is already running past him and screaming, “ _Percy!_ ” at the top of her lungs.

Kronos raises a hand and flicks his wrist almost lazily, and she slams into Athena’s throne.

It’s Percy’s turn to scream her name now. His face is streaked with blood and sweat, dirt and anguish. Ethan scrambles for his sword and forces himself back to his feet, though his tired muscles protest every step of the way. He turns to Percy Jackson; he’s standing between Jackson and the girl dearest to him.

The next few moments—seconds? Minutes? _Hours?_ Ethan can’t quite tell anymore—are nothing but a blur. The clash of blade on blade. A satyr playing music—has he always been there? Ethan didn’t notice. Grass growing between the cracks on the marble floor, emerald green and sparkling, even in the meager sunlight.

Then Luke crumples to the ground, and Ethan’s heart stops.

 _No_ , he reminds himself. _Kronos_.

Ethan finds himself breathing just a little bit easier, except he finds himself facing Jackson a second time, and so he stops breathing again.

A sudden flash of clarity urges him to look at Jackson’s midsection. The raging murderer burrowed inside him throbs like the pulse of a violin.

It would only take one well-placed thrust, after all. 

But—

_But—_

This isn’t what Ethan wants to do. This isn’t what Silena would want.

Kronos grounds out something about proving himself, a promise of reward if only he’s got the courage to ram the sword through Jackson’s…weak spot. _Weak spot_.

“Ethan,” Jackson says, and the sound of his name stops his train of thought abruptly. “ _Ethan_. This isn’t what you’re fighting for.”

“And how would you know that?” Ethan asks, and he’s a little taken aback when he doesn’t hear any malice in his voice. For once, he didn’t lie when he told Silena that he’s too tired. He doesn’t have it in him to be angry for any longer.

Maybe he’s… _sad_. Just a little.

“You wanted justice,” Jackson points out. “You really think mindlessly murdering is going to help you achieve your goal? _At all_? If you haven’t realized it yet—Kronos doesn’t _build_. He only _destroys_.”

Ethan looks at the throne of Hephaestus. Wisps of smoke are still rising from the charred mess, acrid, _burning_. He feels his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

Hephaestus is lucky that he even _has_ a throne to burn.

“My mother doesn’t have one,” he murmurs, and Jackson knits his eyebrows, not following, before he follows Ethan’s line of sight. Comprehension lifts the shadows from his face. Beneath it lies the unmistakable brilliance of _hope_.

Ethan hates it, and then he doesn’t.

He makes his choice in a fraction of a second.

He brings his sword down on the kneeling Titan lord.

He’s expecting it to be a clean cut. This is what he envisioned: Kronos, dead in seconds. Maybe he spares an ounce of his own leftover hope for Luke, the scattered remnants, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long; those thoughts would merely fuel the fervent fire of his fear.

He thinks of Silena instead; he can see himself apologizing to her, to _everyone_ , and he’s thinking of redemption, redemption, _redemption_ , because he was _wrong_ in the end. And it’s his responsibility to repair the ruins he’s left in his wake, at least to the best of his ability.

He isn’t expecting the sharp sting of pain in his stomach, like a paper cut, but tenfold.

Even as the first surge of panic threatens to strangle him, he thinks, _I’m wearing armor_. So—it _should_ be okay, the cut shouldn’t be too deep, he can go back and ask Alabaster to heal it for him— _no, you can’t, because he hates you now, he knows you tried to save Beckendorf_ —he can ask _someone_ to heal it for him, and it’s—it’s okay, _it’s okay_ —

He raises his eye to Kronos. Those unwavering eyes are golden, but Ethan’s heart still pounds with the name that started all of this, and the name he knows will end it, too.

Ethan stumbles forward. The wound in his stomach hurts, but it’s shallow, and he knows he’ll be fine, but he isn’t worried about _himself_. He reaches out with tentative fingers and touches the back of Luke’s palm. His skin is freezing, as if there has never been any life in this body at all. Like it’s just a vessel, and nothing more, and always has been.

He doesn’t know who is in this vessel anymore, but it doesn’t move. It is unwavering and unblinking.

“Luke,” he mumbles. There is blood in his mouth. He doesn’t know if it’s from Annabeth slamming into him or because he keeps biting his own lips, but it distorts his words even further. This time, he’s not ashamed to find that his cheeks are wet with tears. “Can you hear me? Luke, it’s all right. I forgive you.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Jackson take a step forward, but he doesn’t have any time to react, because Luke-or-Kronos is rising to his feet.

Ethan doesn’t understand, until he stomps his foot and a fissure opens beneath him. That’s when his pulse goes into overdrive.

He knows, with a sinking finality, that he is about to die.

It is, he thinks, such a _shame_. There’s so much he hasn’t done for Silena yet.

He turns his most pleading look on Jackson and chokes out, “Thrones. Cabins. _Something_.” The shallowest of breaths. “Please.”

The floor yawns open, revealing the mockingly clear blue abyss of a sky, and he falls.

The last thing he hears is a poisonous voice snarling, “ _Treason_.”

The voice still doesn’t belong to Luke.

* * *

The heroes are honored, as they should be. There are tears shed and shrouds burned. There are old friends finding the courage to unlock the doors to their hearts and move on, though they can’t resist looking back from time to time. No one can run from the past, but everyone can learn to live with it.

Alabaster Torrington stands alone on a battlefield littered with fallen comrades and fallen enemies alike. Even with his helmet on, he makes it a point to breathe through his mouth; the stench of blood and bodies is almost worse than the scene itself.

He lifts his chin high and sheathes his sword, though his fingers still twitch on the hilt.

All around New York City, bewildered mortals are beginning to trickle back into the streets.

Dawn breaks.

* * *

There is no dawn in the Underworld.

For Silena Beauregard, there’s a… _different_ kind of dawn. It sounds like an intake of breath followed by laughter. It feels like her heart in an elevator that only knows how to reach skyward.

It looks like finally, _finally_ reaching out of the dusk and finding the light of the moon again, _her_ moon. She can’t quite believe just how _lucky_ she’s gotten. She’s burying herself in the embrace of the boy who put his arm around her as the fireworks set the summer sky ablaze, of the boy who named her starlight and made her believe it to be true.

It’s sweeter than fresh spring water, and it almost feels like Silena can breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs into the fabric of Charlie’s orange camp T-shirt—the same clothes he was wearing when he snuck aboard the _Princess Andromeda_ on that terrible day. “Oh, gods, I’m _so sorry_. If I’d known—”

“Starlight,” he says. His voice is just as she remembers. The same soft notes, the same contrasting rocky determination underneath. “Didn’t that Nemesis kid tell you? It wasn’t your fault. No one blames you. Definitely not me.”

“B-but—” It’s getting harder and harder for her to speak. “If it hadn’t been for me—”

“If it hadn’t been for you, the drakon would have crushed half of Manhattan. It’s all thanks to you.” He smiles at her, radiant as ever. “I watched you lead the Ares campers. You’re a _hero_ , Silena, and you have every right to be here.”

And that’s when it hits her.

The Olympians have won. The war is over. Of course that is enough reason as any to smile.

The waters of her soul, though, are troubled. “What happened,” she asks quietly, “to the Titan Army demigods? What happened to _Ethan_?”

Charlie hesitates. “I’m—I’m not sure. But I’ve heard that Luke’s gone to look for him—”

“ _Luke Castellan_?” Silena takes a subconscious step back. “What’s that douche doing _here_?”

Charlie laughs. “Yeah, well. He’s not here anymore. He left as soon as he got here, actually. Said he was trying for rebirth, to see if he could get into Asphodel. He wanted to see Ethan. He said he didn’t— _deserve_ to be in Elysium. Something like that.”

Silena freezes. She can feel the telltale stinging behind her eyes again, and with it comes the sinking knowledge that her tears are on the verge of falling again. She blinks rapidly, but they don’t seem to disperse altogether, and maybe that’s okay. “He shouldn’t be in the Fields of Asphodel.”

Ethan—Ethan tried to _help_ her. He knew it was hopeless to fight a drakon, and he betrayed Kronos to try and warn her.

Of course, she hadn’t paid any heed to his cautions, but—he _tried_. That was what mattered, really.

 _Life_ wasn’t fair. She wonders: Is death the same?

* * *

Charlie’s residence has just enough space to accommodate two people. It’s small enough to feel cozy, but not enough to feel cramped. There’s even a workplace for Charlie to continue building new things and repairing old ones, the way he used to at Camp Half-Blood.

And there are _so many_ others. There are the ancient heroes, yes, and there is also Castor, and Michael Yew, and some other demigods she recognizes from camp but never spoke to.

Time is tricky in the Underworld. A day can be a year; a year can be a day. She really does have absolutely no idea how much time has passed since the end of the Second Titan War. Perhaps that should bother her, but she doesn’t let it.

It’s a while before she sees Ethan again.

At first, she almost doesn’t recognize him. He’s paler than she remembers, face blanker, eyes less angry.

 _Eyes_. Plural.

The Fates, for some reason, were kind enough to give his left eye back to him.

Silena has been standing on the outskirts of Elysium every morning—or at least, what she _assumes_ to be morning—hoping for a glimpse of her old friend. All this time, she’s had no luck.

Now that she _is_ seeing him, she doesn’t know what to do. Wave hello? Call him by a name he doesn’t remember?

No. That won’t help her. All that will do is break her heart— _again_.

Instead she holds his gaze silently. He’s not a soldier with a soul of stone anymore; rather, his slate has been wiped clean, _too_ clean. He looks… _younger_ , almost.

Silena raises a hand. He doesn’t react, but she wasn’t expecting him to, anyway.

The distance between them feels longer than eternity. There’s nothing to fill it, except the promise she made, what feels like an age ago:  _I will see you again._

Now that promise sounds like nothing more than a cruel joke.

“You were the brother I had for only a few months,” she calls. “I know you don’t remember anymore, but—I still do. You were my brother, and they took you from me.” She pauses, hoping against hope that Ethan will respond, but of course he doesn’t. 

“There’s someone who wants to see you,” she tells him. “I don’t know what he’ll look like in his second life—or third—but his name was Luke. His plan is stupid but he’s really desperate. Honestly, it’s kind of pathetic. But it’s my hope that the two of you will meet again.” She smiles to herself. “Maybe we can talk just like this. We can have the fresh start we needed so badly but never got in our lives. You know?”

Ethan blinks at her once, slowly, uncomprehending. Silena’s heartbeat thumps like a drum. Then, without a word, he turns and heads back into the depths of Asphodel, and Silena watches his retreating form until the mist swallows him from her vision.

It’s exactly like on the night of the explosion; it is almost like he was nothing more than part of the shadows or a trick of the light.

But _Silena_ knows that he was there. He was standing in the spot that looks just like any other spot, toeing the line that separated him from memory and unable to cross it even if he wanted to, with his hands tucked into pockets and both eyes unfocused. 

She  _remembers_. She figures that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all who’ve read this far!! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated; I'd love to hear your thoughts! [Here's my tumblr,](http://ethanakamura.tumblr.com/) so feel free to message me there too! :)


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